Tacit Beauty

There is no photo to be taken as long as there is no eye willing to redefine the object in question.

It can be anything. The thing is to dare to discover and denounce, with an image, the tacit beauty that everything keeps.

A human fetus covered with formaldehyde in a glass jar, the endless eyelashes of an empty woman, the reflection of a house in the rotten water of a fountain, an old building, a modest river, a sensation, a scream of hate, a naked breast, an abandoned boat, and even a corpse in a medical school.

Everything can be turned into a visual pleasure. A camera and an eye lubricated with imprudence, madness, and sensitivity are sufficient to strip life of its nauseating ordinariness, prioritizing the tacit beauty that everything keeps.

Run away from ordinary aesthetics, from set phrases, flee from refined techniques, and any image theory, in short, from everything that tries to curtail the ontological need to make a stop anywhere at any time for the sheer pleasure of contemplating and taking a picture.